WASHINGTON — In a surprise statement that has shocked
America and raised hopes among disgruntled Democrats that President George
W Bush might be impeached for 'un-American activities', a leaked diary
describes in graphic detail what one pundit called 'a disgusting catalogue
of sexual perversions'

Utterpants has obtained a transcript of
the steamy confession from a tall bloke in a dark suit and sunglasses
who insisted we keep his identity secret, but asked us to call him 'Karl'.

'Karl' went on to tell us that far from taking steps to deny the confession,
Mrs Bush is alleged to have said: 'This'll teach that two-timing asshole
that he can't fuck with me and get away with it'. When asked to explain
what she meant, our source tapped his nose conspirationally and said:
'George has been playing away from home again and Laura isn't prepared
to take it any more."We would warn readers of a nervous disposition that what follows
is not suitable for adults under 18, or staunch supporters of the President.

"Hello. I’m Laura Bush. Some of you may know me as the President’s
wife. Others of you may know me as a recently converted stripper from
the Bronx. But for simplicity’s sake, let’s just think of
me as the First Lady.

In these trying and threatening times of terrorism and democratic elections,
it’s easy for my husband to target the opposition with the most
blatant of lies. Like he is a loving, family man, devoted to pleasing
his wife and family. Never mind that the sonofabitch skipped duty in
the service, was once arrested for drunk driving, or raped a black underage
welfare recipient, knocked her up, and then paid for her abortion. But
I’m here to present a very different side to George; a power-crazed
meglomaniacal sex pervert who wants to rule the world.

Many of you probably remember the pretzel incident, in the winter of
2003. George said he choked on a pretzel, passed out, and suffered a
slightly bruised cheek. While technically true, it isn't the whole story.
George didn’t want to release the true details for fear of embarrassing
himself. But in the interest of the future of America, I will now describe
the events of that Sunday exactly as I remember them.

The truth is I was horny as hell. Yes, even Texas librarians get horny
every once in awhile. Usually I just fondle myself in the shower, or
ask the Filipino pool boy to give me a quick rub down, but there are
times when I want — no I need — a good ole Texan wang pounded
in me hard and brutal.

I had my paws all over George as soon as I entered the Oral Office
that day. He was sitting behind the desk, and I swiped all the memos
away — including the one that said Bin Laden Determined
to Strike in US. Hell, that Bin Laden guy was gonna hafta
wait! Today was my turn to play Monica. I climbed atop the Oval Office
desk, wrapped my legs around George's neck, and began to unbutton his
collar. “Come on, Mr. President. You be Jack and I’ll be
Marilyn,” I breathed hotly into his ear.

He pushed me away. “Not now, darlin’. The game’s
about to start.”
“What game?” I asked, nibbling on his ear.
“Miami and the Ravens. Those damn East Coast birds got a rude
awakening comin’. Jeb assures me the Fins won’t give them
a chance.”
George’s brother, Jeb, is governor of Florida. Y'all remember
Florida, don’t you?
So the President and I made ourselves comfortable in the dining room
of the west wing as we watched the wildcard playoff game between the
Miami Dolphins and the Baltimore Ravens.

Now, I’m no football expert or anything, but it soon became real
clear real that Miami was as toasted as those fat cats at Enron. They
came out swingin’ at first, like they were out for blood, as the
President so eloquently put it, but they did what most guys do... fizzle
out before halftime. George could only sit there, yell at the TV, chow
down on beer and pretzels while I sat by dryin’ up like the Sahara
by the minute. I tried to seduce George at halftime, but to be honest;
he seemed more interested in John Madden than he did me.

“When does intermission get over?”
“It’s called halftime, darlin’,” he said like
he was Mr. Wizard or something.
“Yeah, yeah, and the people of Greece are called Greeks, not Grecians,”
I mumbled.

He walked up to me then, and I expected him to get upset, but he embraced
me with a full lipped kiss. Had he not belched in the middle of it,
the kiss would’ve been very romantic. And there I was, standing
in the White House with the President’s tongue in my mouth, the
same tongue that stumbled over subliminal and to this day cannot pronounce
nuclear. I was falling in love with him all over again. Eat your heart
out Monica Lewinsky. You’re not the only one with the ability
to give the President a hard on.
My fingers traveled down his shoulders, and then down the front of his
pants. He cringed when I touched him, then pulled out of the kiss like
a teenager nervous about getting his braces stuck. Behind me, on the
television, I heard the game coming back on. Halftime was over. George
had gone soft.

At one point in the second half of the football game, George stood
up, cursed at the TV, and made a telephone call. “Karl, have the
ref that just blew that call fired.” He slammed down the phone
and then smirked in that presidential way he has.
Baltimore lost that game but George told me the Dolphins didn’t
even cover the spread, whatever that means. The only spread I was concerned
about covering was the spread of my legs on his shoulders. But George
was depressed; having lost several hundred thousand dollars in a game
he thought would be a sure thing. I’m sure you can feel his pain.
Especially if you owned Enron stock.

I tried to make him feel better with a back rub. He turned the TV off
and relaxed back into the couch. I began unbuttoning his shirt while
straddling his waist. With the release of each button, I felt his hardness
begin to grow beneath me, like a growing rock. Well, more like a growing
pebble. But we have a saying here in Texas — it’s not how
big the bone is, it’s how deep ya bury it.
I stopped, suddenly aware of eyes watching me from across the room.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked, his body getting warm
with sweat.
I turned to look at the eyes. “We’re being watched.”
“Oh don’t mind them, darlin’, Spot watches me jerk
off all the time. And Barney starts to drool when I'm about to cum.
Why don’t we do it doggy style for them?”

I wasn't used to being watched so intently during sex, at least not
by anyone other than Karl Rove. I tried to get my mind back on the subject
in hand. I began running my fingers through George’s chest hair
and started undressing him again, unbuttoning his pants, and sliding
off his boxers with the Presidential seal on them. When he reached out
to grab me, his hand swung around the dining room table and knocked
over several Corona bottles and a bowl of pretzels. One pretzel landed
squarely on his stomach.
I grinned at it wickedly, pinching it between my fingers.
“What’s cookin’ in that li’l head of yours,
darlin’?” he asked.
I backed up on the other side of the couch, pretzel still within my
grip, and with my other hand, I slid out of my pantsuit, and then my
undies. George only smiled.
For whatever reason, the President didn’t like normal curved pretzels.
He preferred the straight kind, the kind that can slide easily into
certain orifices of the human body. The ones — shaped like mini
cigars, long and skinny — well, you get the idea.

Should
I bore you with the details? Of course I should.
George took the special pretzel and put it in me. In and out, it went,
the salt on its sides scratching against the inside of my love tunnel.
He leaned over and kissed me as his pretzel slid in and out of my body
in a rhythm that can only be described as divine. From the corner of
my eye, I saw Barney begin to drool.

We paused to look into each other’s eyes. George pulled his pretzel
out of me. It was now very wet and it looked like it was covered with
white chocolate. I noticed the First Penis begin to salute, as he raised
the pretzel up to his parted lips and put it into his mouth, dripping
with my cum. But he didn’t bite down, instead he swallowed without
chewing it first, and the pretzel slid down his throat and began to
choke him. I married a moron!

That mischievous lustful look in his eyes was replaced with the fear
of death. His hands went to his neck and his face started to turn very
red.
If it weren’t so funny, it would’ve been really scary. But
I slowly began to realize I needed to do something. I mean, if I waited
much longer, that asshole Dick Cheney would be President, and then we’d
all be screwed. George continued choking, and I started to panic. Meanwhile,
the dogs just sat there, like bumps on logs, no help at all. As I hesitated,
George was losing consciousness. So I performed my civic duty. I wrapped
my hands around his chest, just below his rib cage, and I squeezed.
Mr. Heimlich would’ve been proud to see that lubricated pretzel
jump out of his mouth and fly across the room. When I let go of him,
his body went as limp as his manhood, and your President slumped down
onto the coffee table headfirst, and then onto the floor. I quickly
checked for a pulse and was relieved to find one. He was lying on the
floor naked, slowly gaining colour. When he came to, he didn’t
remember a thing, and he had a headache the size of the federal deficit.
I gave him some ice cream and put him to bed.

The story has since come out that George choked on a pretzel and fell
off the couch onto the floor. As you can see, the story is completely
true but it leaves out the more charming details. George even decided
to teach the country a lesson with his little mishap. “My mother
was right, always chew your food,” he’s told us. That George...
if he isn’t the most insightful philosophic President we’ve
ever had, I don’t know who is. However, I rather doubt his mother
explicitly warned him about chewing pretzels covered in cum. I know
the next time George goes down on me, I’m going to make him chew
twenty times before swallowing. It’s my civic duty, after all.
Well no, on second thoughts, I won’t tell him to chew, unless
he’s going down on Hillary Clinton."